


Against the Wall

by Odamaki



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bathroom Sex, Condoms, Dirty phonecalls, Dorks in Love, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Grumpy John, Hand Jobs, John Needs a Cup of Tea, John's Job is Boring, M/M, Makeup Sex, Mostly porn, Mutual Pining, PWP, Passive-aggression, Phone Sex, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Relationship(s), Safer Sex, Sherlock Being a Tease, Shower Sex, Some Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-21 00:42:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2448998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Odamaki/pseuds/Odamaki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has another voicemail message; a long one. </p><p>John perches on the edge of the bed, presses the button and holds the phone up to his ear. </p><p>“Good morning, John,” Sherlock says lazily, voice a little hoarse; sleep-rough. </p><p>'Good morning' indeed; John had heard the time stamp, it had been something like three in the afternoon. He closes his eyes. He can imagine him, legs sprawled carelessly under the covers, one hand idly brushing his hair or scratching the back of his neck, the other on the phone- oh, no, he’s put the phone down.</p><p>The other hand, then, is-?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Against the Wall

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Thin Line](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1861350) by [Odamaki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Odamaki/pseuds/Odamaki). 
  * Inspired by [The Thin Line](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1861350) by [Odamaki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Odamaki/pseuds/Odamaki). 



> This fic is in the same verse as The Thin Line and sort of a non-direct continuation. Thanks as always to my beta [Codenamelazarus](http://codenamelazarus.tumblr.com). Any grammatical errors are all my own work. UwU
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr here: [Odamakilock](http://odamakilock.tumblr.com)
> 
> (I do not give permission to repost, reproduce or archive this fanfic in part or in it's entirety to any other website except with prior written consent provided by myself, nor any profit be made from any of these works under any circumstances whatsoever.)

Sherlock hates it when he leaves. He covers John with his body, pushing him back.

“Five days. Just- five days,” John manages to get out between hard kisses. “I’ll be back Thursday, in time-“ He digs his fingers in either side of the knobs of Sherlock’s spine and presses them together from chest to loin. “-time for lunch. Jesus!”

Sherlock bares his teeth against John’s jaw, and makes a noise of discontent. “What if there’s a case?”

“I’ll come back.”

“Edinburgh’s too far. Boring. Stay.” He growls and punctuates his words with kisses.

John wants to stay; he’d rather kick his heels in Baker Street for a week than spend it slogging around a medical conference and doing training, especially with Sherlock in this kind of mood, but unfortunately needs must.

“I know, I know,” he says, gently tugging Sherlock’s hair to make him slow down in his attempts to turn John into one enormous love-bite. “I’ll message you.”

Over Sherlock’s shoulder he catches a glimpse of the clock and swears emphatically. “Oh, shitting hell!”

He wriggles free of the bed, scrabbling for his trousers- if he doesn’t leave as soon as possible, he’s going to miss his flight. As it is, he’s going to have to travel unwashed and with a lingering erection. Sherlock looks at him from the bed, wounded. John hustles, feeling like he needs two extra arms. He drags on a shirt, socks and shoves his feet in his unlaced shoes. He packed his bag last night at least, and so no need to worry about that. With one hand he tries to flatten his hair and with the other he gulps at a tepid cup of tea before abandoning most of it back on the bedside table. His balls ache and his stomach protests at the lack of breakfast.  

Sherlock glowers.

John dumps his bag by the front door and comes back for his keys, wallet and phone; shoving them into the pockets of the jacket he’s holding. There’s a snickers bar on the desk and he bites half off, chewing frantically and grimacing.

“Ok,” he says finally, and then with a wrench, “I’ve got to go.”

Sherlock stretches one leg out meaningfully, and looks at him. John checks his watch. He feels awful ditching Sherlock like this, but there’s not even time for a rough wank. At least, not one that wouldn’t turn into the worst kind of bully-wank.

“Goddammit!”

John throws his coat onto his bag and strides over to the bed, catching Sherlock’s face in both hands and kissing him fast, as well as he knows how. “Look after yourself,” he says breathlessly against Sherlock’s cheek when he’s done, “I’ll be back Thursday.”

John hates it when he leaves, feeling guilty and bothered. “Yeah, Paddington, please,” he tells the taxi driver shortly, dragging the door shut.

Back in Baker Street, Sherlock flops back on the bed, lips still buzzing, and calculates the hours until he can expect John back again; how long he has to go on with the boredom alone. He looks at the clock.

 _‘One’_ , he thinks, miserably.

\---

London is steaming and stifling. The relentless cloudbanks build up over the Atlantic and then pass over England to blow their load somewhere on the continent. Opening the windows does nothing but bring in the wasps and the tinny reek of car exhaust.

Edinburgh is moderately cooler and wetter. It’s a beautiful city, and the area around Murryfield Hospital is decent enough. John, for his own reasons, loathes it.  The accommodation is fine. It’s standard for economic business for a few days, it’s clean and it’s conveniently located right round the corner from the hospital, with a good bus link to the conference centre, and John still hates it.

He doesn’t like the mass of strangers he knows nothing about without Sherlock there to fill in details that they’d never think to tell him when he introduces himself. He talks medicine with them, without murder, and picks up the latest news in the medical research community; cherry picking out what he thinks would interest his other half. He messages Sherlock, but gets no reply, and feels guiltier and, consequently, also rather annoyed.

Dinner consists of some sub-par Indian, banal conversation and a pint of beer, before he excuses himself and slopes off to his hotel defeated. He eyes the narrow Holiday Inn bed, and predicts (unreasonably) the itch of overly clean, pressed sheets and alien smell of them chasing away his chances of sleep. With a sigh, he lifts his bag from the floor and dumps it on the covers, unzipping it.

There’s something blue on the very top, which he didn’t pack. He unfurls the soft cotton, slightly bewildered and shakes the creases out. It’s rumpled and dirty, pulled off and shoved in the bag at the last minute. John presses it to his face in a private moment of unselfconscious longing, and breathes in the smell of home from Sherlock’s dressing gown.

He groans.

Later, before he turns the light out, he drapes the dressing gown over the solid white pillows like a protective barrier, and lies back on them. It takes him a moment to hold his camera at the right place so he doesn’t look entirely like a sad old prat, and takes a photo. It’s sent to Sherlock with a just simple message.

<–night x>

\---

He gets no reply till morning, when the phone bleeps and wails and inconveniences him when, half-asleep, he’s already plonked himself down on the bog.  

“Oh, hang on, hang on!” John says, exasperated, reaching for the toilet paper, but by the time he manages to sort himself out it’s clicked off. Frowning, John stumbles back through to the bedroom and fumbles with it. It’s gone over to voicemail, and he frowns more, concerned.

It’s ages before it reels off properly.

It’s unusual enough an occurrence, because Sherlock never calls if he can help it, that John is worried. He debates between calling back or listening to the message, but if Sherlock’s bothered with voicemail then maybe that’s the way to go. The message plays.

It’s quiet.

At first he thinks it’s just a duff message and relaxes; Sherlock must have pocket-dialled him or something, which would logically tick all the boxes explaining this, but then he hears, a little tinny through his phones’ speakers, someone clear their throat, and then sigh ever so slightly.

He doesn’t need anything more to know that it’s Sherlock. That little ‘hem’ of an ex-smokers cough and the habitual huff he gives when he’s making himself comfortable on John’s side of the bed. John checks his watch. It’s 6 A.M. Not unheard of for Sherlock to be crashing out around now.

Stupidly, he almost opens his mouth to say Sherlock’s name and get his attention or something, but of course, it’s nothing more than a recording.

Sherlock must have the phone on one of their pillows; the sound crackles with the shift of the fabric, and then grows louder as Sherlock moves closer. John can just picture him, shuffling his feet restlessly under the duvet; seeking a John-shaped warm spot that isn’t there.

Even as he thinks that, he hears Sherlock make a wordless grumble of annoyance.

“Sorry,” he says to his empty hotel room.

“Idiot,” Sherlock mutters, making John’s heart leap even though it’s ambiguous to whom he is speaking. John catches his own dishevelled face in the mirror above the dresser and above that the day is starting to leak through. He mouths at it all ‘you are.’

Sherlock exhales, long and slow, his fingertips clattering briefly on the plastic of the phone, perhaps adjusting it’s position or perhaps he’s holding it in his hand- John can’t tell, but he can catch the click of his nails and in the back of his head, he knows how long they are and the feel of them brushing likewise against his skin.

John shivers, despite the muggy air of the room.

He stands and listens until the breathing on the phone is the slow deep breath of sleep and the message abruptly ends.

\---

He drags himself through the day with well-practiced polite false interest. There are lectures, and one actually quite useful workshop and soggy sandwiches from Tesco for lunch. The latter are not the fault of the training day; John just opts to skip out of the lunchtime chitchat and takes himself off for an hour to wander around the hospital grounds. There’s a garden where he sits, unenthusiastically eats his sandwich and sends Sherlock a text, short and simple.

<Sleep alright?>

Typically there’s no reply; though he wouldn’t put it past Sherlock to still be asleep at noon.

A pair of ducks skim overhead, calling back and forth.

London feels very far away.

\---

He goes another day with no word from home, though he gets a text from Lestrade informing him that Sherlock’s been at Barts on and off, picking Molly’s brains more literally than she would like, and incidentally, when would John be home?

<Soon.> John replies, though by the sounds of it, it can’t be soon enough.

<I’ll see if he’ll take any cold cases then> Greg replies, evidently agreeing with him.

Weirdly, the news pleases John. As sorry as he is that Sherlock’s obviously in a mood and taking it out on others, it is sort of nice to know how missed he is. He’s not sure if it’s a far cry from the days when Sherlock used to take John’s presence in the house so much for granted he’d carry on whether or not John was actually there, or a weird kind of extension of that need to have him around at least peripherally.

He finishes the day some hours later and returns to his hotel room where he switches his phone back on for the first time in hours. Not his choice, but they get snotty when you start messing with the delicate lab machinery just by wandering near it.

He has another voicemail message; a long one.

John perches on the edge of the bed, presses the button and holds the phone up to his ear.

It’s quiet, like the first; and then he hears Sherlock yawn. A little grunt of effort and the shift of fabric as he stretches or moves or… does something. The phone is set down on a hard surface with a clatter.

“ _Good morning, John,”_ Sherlock says lazily, voice a little hoarse; sleep-rough.

Good morning indeed; John had heard the time stamp, it had been something like three in the afternoon. He closes his eyes. He can imagine him, legs sprawled carelessly under the covers, one hand idly brushing his hair or scratching the back of his neck, the other on the phone- oh, no, he’s put the phone down.

The other hand, then, is-?

It’s on the drawer. John hears the scrape of the wood and the characteristic rattle of the ring-pull handles. Sherlock hums vaguely, feeling around in the drawer, and John opens his eyes, listening suddenly with incredible intensity because he’s suddenly, irrationally sure that’s the _left-hand middle drawer_ and there’s only a few certain items in there.

‘Oh, my God,’ he thinks, stunned.

He thinks it again, more emphatically when he hears the soft click of a plastic bottle.

There’s a flump as the duvet is kicked back but no other noise of fabric and John automatically amends his mental image for he’s now quite sure that Sherlock is fully nude. He hears the squish of the lube as Sherlock warms it in the palm of one hand and then his soft sigh that darkens at once to a noise of near-satisfaction.

 _‘Fuck!’_ John thinks, and has to shift back an abrupt inch or else slip off the end of the bed from the sheer force of his disbelief that this is really happening. The joints of his spine crackle as he straightens up.

The scene of the crime, so to speak, is too far from the phone for John to adequately hear _it_ but he can hear Sherlock breathing; the at first steady in-and-out growing deeper, stronger and more erratic as the time ticks by.

The phone is warm against his ear, almost unpleasantly so and it’s slipping in the damp grasp of his fingers, where he’s got it clamped against his head. Sherlock makes a noise; one of those ones that comes right from the middle of his chest and is exhaled rather than spoken; a little nasal but one of John’s Achilles’ heels when it comes to Sherlock and the things they do after dark together. John bites his lip, stifles a groan and reaches for his flies.

 _‘Don’t you dare, John.’_ The prescience of the voice from the phone gives John a cold start of surprise, and he pulls his hand away at once.

 _‘It’s very bad of you to leave me, John, like this.’_ Another of those long, deep sounds that make John’s stomach thrill. “Jesus,” he whimpers, clutching at the duvet. “You bastard. Oh, hell.”

His cock aches fiercely.

And then Sherlock stops. There’s a faint sigh, and then Sherlock says ‘ _Well, that’s enough of that._ ’ Business-like, John hears the rattle of the lube as it goes back in the drawer, the zip of a fastened fly and then the static of Sherlock wiping his hands on something.  He hears Sherlock clear his throat briefly and then stand, bare feet across carpet. ‘ _Bye!_ ’ he says and hangs up at once.

John nearly throws his phone across the room. Sherlock hadn’t even bothered to come- hadn’t finished, after all that, the bastard! Winding him up. “You are bloody lucky you’re at the other end of the country,” John tells the phone.

He drops it on the bed, stands and in a move that is half-stretch, half gesture of frustration, reaches up and grabs briefly at the shoulders of his shirt. The phone lies on the neat, starched sheets, a foot away from Sherlock’s dressing gown, both of them striking John as mutely smug.

“Git,” he says to them, and heads for the shower.

\---

The plane home is cancelled.

John manages a flight as far as Birmingham, and then typically, there’s not a train to be had. Cramped into a replacement bus service with 50 other pissed-off travellers, they swear and dogleg their way south with obnoxious slowness; blighted by road works and traffic jams all the way down.

By the time they hit the clogged arterial roads of London Metropolitan Area, John’s about ready to get out and walk, with ‘punch someone’ standing by as a hot second option. He sends a couple of terse messages home ahead of him, grinds his teeth and does his utmost not to throttle the woman in the seat next to him who insists on yakking away on her mobile. He has no bloody interest in her dishwasher, her husband or what Glenys at the office said. They can all fuck right off.

His legs cling to the fabric beneath him; sweating through his trousers, and the worn out bus seat pokes him right in the small of his back where it’s the least comfortable. It’s a spare moment of relief to finally step out at Victoria bus station and inhale non-recycled air, until has to scrabble through the terminal itself, trying not to either trip over or kick all these infernal wheelie-suitcases. He looks around but Sherlock hasn’t come to meet him.

John grits his teeth and hauls his luggage towards the London Met. Bus Stop.

It’s still ages until he actually reaches the doorstep, feeling gritty and foul-mouthed.  The bus usually takes only 30 minutes; today it’s more than double that. No point taking a taxi- he’d walk or take the tube if it weren’t for the suitcase.

Sherlock looks up as he walks in, and there is, for lack of better description, a moment where John feels the confines of his body. His aching back and neck protest as he straightens automatically at the sight of him. His lungs glitch and there’s no term in the whole of the medical community for the specific kind of thrill that skips in the space of half a heartbeat from his thorax to his toes.

Sherlock is sat in his chair, one bare ankle propped up on one cotton-clad knee, as carefully insouciant as only he can be, a magazine in hand. John would be convinced Sherlock hadn’t been expecting him, but only if he were an idiot and knew nothing of Sherlock at all.

The dressing gown is new; it’s light, barely there. The pyjamas are old friends to them both, but with a few of the usual components missing.

There’s nothing underneath them, for a start.

And no shirt.

John drops his bag on the carpet.   

“Well,” he says, which isn’t what he quite meant to say. He usually starts with a ‘hello’ or something, but there’s fury at the stupidity of his day in the form of a headache pounding at the back of his skull.

“Mm,” says Sherlock, casually flicking a page over.

“I’m home,” John says. He’s standing with his palms out, arms loose at his sides, looking at Sherlock. It would take the man only two long paces to stand up, cross over the carpet and embrace him.

“Yep,” Sherlock agrees, squinting at something in the magazine. He angles his head so that the long line of his neck is exposed. All the way down the slipping collar of the dressing gown lies a flash of bare skin

John breathes out through his nose and folds his arms.

Presently, Sherlock looks up. He raises one dark eyebrow and John swallows and waits until the silence gets a bit awkward and it’s clear that Sherlock isn’t getting up from his chair or going to put down Guns ‘n’ Ammo. ‘ _Shouldn’t have hung back,’_ he chides himself.

Outwardly, John frowns, still in a bad mood and now a bit putout. “Did you get my messages?” he asks. Sherlock leans over with great deliberateness and looks down at his mobile on the coffee table. “Oh, look. Yes. I did.”

John’s frown deepens as he turns his back and sulks into the kitchen. “Didn’t occur to you to reply, I see. Anything from Mrs. Hudson?”

Sherlock points lackadaisically at the fridge where, stuck fore and centre is a postcard from the South of France. “Having a lovely time, wishes we were there.”

John picks it up, cracking a faint smile.

“I believe the latter sentiment was sarcasm,” Sherlock adds. “God knows I wouldn’t wish to be there either.”

“Yeah, you and beaches,” John mutters. He looks back and Sherlock has purposefully propped one foot on the coffee table, his knee lolling to the side and giving John a streamlined view up the inside of both long limbs, to the point where his trouser legs meet. John bites his lip.

He sort of gets what’s going on. This is more or less Sherlock’s brand of teasing, but Sherlock is still genuinely annoyed at him for leaving in the first place so instead it goes awry like this. John wants nothing more than to march over and pull the magazine from his hands and push himself into Sherlock’s personal space and demand, but he’s not sure if that wouldn’t tip the scales over completely. If Sherlock’s really that annoyed, he’ll cut him cold, and whilst John can understand teasing, he finds it harder to deal with being wounded.

Instead he puts the postcard back under its magnet and goes foraging for clean clothes. Much of the bedroom is exactly how he left it the morning he’d rushed off to catch his plane. To wit, bed unmade, the basket in the corner full, and one of the drawers hanging open.

John rummages with increasing frustration. “You didn’t do any washing!” he gripes loudly; now he’s only got his posh, uncomfortable pants that he usually avoids because they’re just a bit too snug for him.

Sherlock doesn’t deign to reply to such an obvious complaint. Of course, John thinks, what did he really expect? That he’d jolly off to the fetid north of the country and Sherlock would suddenly come over all Suzie Homemaker? As if.

“You could have at least done some of it,” John clarifies.

Unseen in the living room, Sherlock shrugs to himself. He _could_ have, but where’s the fun in that?

John finds half a snickers bar on the dresser- his horrible breakfast the day he left and eats the other half reluctantly as a horrible snack to ward off the encroaching hunger pangs. He’d had a nondescript wrap an hour ago, and it made a poor excuse for dinner.  He stacks up a pair of comfy old jogging bottoms and a t-shirt, and then with a sigh, the posh pants. Despite both military history and his other half’s propensity towards causal nudism, he’s not actually comfortable with going commando himself.

It’ll have to do. Shower, then food and a cup of something hot; yes, a hot meal and then bed. That’d put him to rights, and maybe by that time, Sherlock will have thawed. “You could have made me a bloody cup of tea, though,” John adds under his breath.

“Could have. Didn’t,” Sherlock says. He’s stolen into the bedroom behind John’s back; tossed aside the dressing gown somewhere too. He throws himself lazily onto the bed, leaning on his elbow and watching John intently. John feels his gaze sweep over his shoulders, back and then linger on his arse, and the soft exhalation.

John turns to see if this is an invitation. If he’s being honest, now that he’s taken his coat off, he feels distinctly unpleasant and a shower first would probably be welcome to both parties, or at the very least he needs to clean his teeth. He still smells of public transport and he’s tired enough that he wouldn’t let himself drive on doctor’s orders, even if he had a licence.

Sherlock’s body language looks inviting. He stretches on the bed, making the lines of his belly taut and there are the first promises of an erection under the thin pyjamas. There’s a gleam in his eye, however, which tells John to look but not touch. There’s a fuse in John’s head which somewhat objects. He wants a kiss and to feel welcome, and it’s not bloody fair. It was only a week.

“I’m having a shower,” John says.  “Look, I’ve had a crap trip, I’m tired. My head’s killing me, can we not do this…?”

Sherlock looks at the wall, shrugs and gets up.

“Alright,” he says simply.

“Sherlock.”

“Go. Shower.  I’ll fill the kettle,” he waves a hand over his shoulder, slouching away into the kitchen.  

“I just need fifteen minutes,” John says to Sherlock’s back, feeling bad.

\---

He gets ten, in the end before Sherlock comes in, a mug in each hand and he balances one on the back of the sink in reach of John and sits on the toilet with the other.

John leans out slightly and peeks around the curtain, his hair sticking up in wet tufts. Sherlock casually swigs at his tea, completely naked.

“Thanks,” John says, reaching for his. It’s a bit warm to have tea in the shower, but he’s craving the caffeine. He grunts with satisfaction, downing half the mug even though it’s hot. “God, that’s good.”

“Mm,” Sherlock says in agreement, watching him. John leans on the side of the shower, shoulder against the cold tiles and puts his mug down.

He ducks back under the shower, soaping up and feeling the steam clearing his sinuses. The water pounds off of his scalp, easing his headache slightly. He’s intensely aware of Sherlock’s presence.

John hears the click of the mug as Sherlock sets it down again on the ceramic back of the toilet, empty.

“Do you want to come in?” John offers, his voice sounding oddly loud.

On the other side of the curtain, Sherlock is quiet for a moment and then John hears him stand and approach.

“Are you asking me or telling me?” he wants to know, still teasing.

John bites his lip, breathing deep as the water drips off of his chin. He weighs his options carefully.

“Telling,” he says finally, “Come in here with me.”

For a second or two he wonders if he’s got it wrong; if Sherlock’s still annoyed with him or something but then Sherlock lifts a hand and pushes the curtain slowly to one side.

He steps in over the side of the bath, crowding John in, and there’s not really that much space of them both. Sherlock ducks his head under the low shower and wets his hair, pushing the curls back flat against his scalp. John reaches for him.

“You’re a tease,” he says quietly, sliding the palm of his hand over Sherlock’s hip. Sherlock looks down at him, his expression still rather serious.

“Look who’s talking.”

“God’s sake,” John blurts, fed up and frustrated with the whole situation. “Just kiss me.”

He doesn’t really wait for Sherlock to do it. Instead he catches the nape of his neck in his other hand and pulls him down into it, although Sherlock goes with him willingly, his own fingers digging hard into John’s buttocks. He makes a noise that somehow manages to iterate everything John is feeling.

The bottles in the over-stocked shower shelf clatter and the shaving gel topples out completely as John pushes him against the tiles. Sherlock’s heels slip, but he’s tall enough to catch himself with one foot braced against the end of the bath, his backside resting on the uncomfortable edge where the tub meets the wall next to the taps. John takes advantage of the improvement in height difference and kisses hard down the line of his neck with a groan.

Sherlock burrows fingers in John’s hair inasmuch as John’s short hair-cut will allow him to, tugging his head back so he can kiss him on the mouth again, not at all gently.

John barks an expletive that is immediately muffled, and then the pair of them slip down into the tub, John’s knees pinned either side of Sherlock’s torso and the plastic rings of the shower curtain pinging free as Sherlock automatically grabs at its trailing end.

He pulls John down into another kiss, his free hand sliding the length of John’s spine even as John fumbles to turn of the rush of water that’s splattering over his shoulders and getting in their eyes. He slaps at the tap and lowers the lever, sending it gushing from the spout instead and down Sherlock’s chest. He’s breathing hard.

John laughs at the stupidity of it all; at how badly they’ve both been behaving and how ridiculously desperate he is for Sherlock. When he does so, Sherlock smiles, the corners of his eyes lifting up and crinkling.

“God, I want you,” John breathes and when they kiss again it’s slower and deeper. Sherlock’s fingers ghost over his shoulders, the scar and the bones of his spine, before they find John’s hips. He thumbs circles over the edges of his pelvis, the touch sending a thrill through John’s core.

John inhales, worked up, and without needing any other hint Sherlock wraps a hand around him.

He drops his face until their cheeks brush and returns the favour, making Sherlock push up into his touch.

Sherlock’s grip is loose; he makes John work for it, watching each iteration of feeling that crosses John’s face closely. John is deliberately firmer in his touch; treating Sherlock to long, slow pulls that erode at his ability to concentrate.

“We should,” John starts, stops to kiss at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth and then finishes, “move to the bedroom.”

“There’s lube in the cabinet.”

John shuts the water off and reaches a hand down to help pull Sherlock to his feet.

\---

Over the months of their relationship, they’ve gotten better at this- more efficient yet more patient, and more co-ordinated.  Sherlock can roll on a condom without even looking now, and John’s always had the art of pulling on a latex glove in short order. Nor do the items any longer put a dampener on things; they’ve become so part and parcel of the act that they’ve almost become erotic in their own right.

“Go on, Dr. Watson,” Sherlock mocks him gently, not that nowadays John needs persuading to press his fingers inside of his lover. The memory of their first attempt still makes John roll his eyes in embarrassment however, and he digs his teeth leniently into Sherlock’s shoulder as a sign of his disapproval. He presses his forehead to the same spot after, reaching around Sherlock’s thigh to caress him. Glancing up, he catches sight of Sherlock’s face in the bathroom mirror and shivers.

It’s not perfect, John thinks, in either the minor or the major of their partnership. His feet are sticking to the linoleum and despite his arousal he’s stifling a yawn; they still row over petty issues and struggle to communicate some of the most basic things they should really, as grown men in a committed relationship, be able to discuss easily. They have sloppy, vanilla, middle-aged sex shortly before John’s bedtime more often than they have insane erotic knee-bruising moments in the bathtub.

But it’s everything John wants. It’s so very nearly brilliant, and almost in a way, it’s this- the grumpy sniping at one another and the scummy cups of tea left all over the flat and the irrational jealousy- that makes it so right for them.

His toes curling and his nose pressed to Sherlock’s back, the head of his erection brushing his thigh, John tries to imagine their relationship being completely perfect and he can’t. Better than this would be fairy tale. It would be clean and uncomplicated and therefore boring.

He gently slips his fingers free, pulls the glove free of his hand to discard it and as Sherlock reaches back and grabs at his hip to guide him, lets the other man push back at his own pace.

They always start slow; regardless of desire or the flash-bang of attraction that brings them together in the first place. They’re rough with each other in many ways; clumsy with one another’s feelings at the bare minimum, but they make an unspoken promise here- pain during intimacy isn’t allowed.  Sherlock folds his arms on the sink and bows his head, one long shiver running down the length of his body as John settles into him.

John breathes out slowly, sweat making his eyes itch. He waits till Sherlock lifts his head again and then starts to move.

They work together and the pace mounts, making John breathless.

Sherlock looks back over his shoulder and down at him. “Better?” he asks, and the question only doesn’t sound smug because Sherlock pants the word out. His fingers slip on the damp tiles over the sink. John presses a bruising kiss to the blade of the other man’s shoulder by way of affirmation; pushes deeper.

Sherlock bows over the sink again, gripping the avocado porcelain in both hands and then shifting; planting one hand on the tap instead as much for support as to avoid either John or himself jamming his face into the metal by mistake. It takes a moment for this to reach the part of John that’s still functioning logically and he pulls out. He grasps Sherlock’s shoulder to turn him around. “Floor,” he says, backing Sherlock against the wall and together they drop onto the damp shower mat. Sherlock hikes his rump into John’s lap, digs his toes into the edge of the bath for leverage, and takes him again.

The floor is hard on John’s knees and the angle Sherlock is laying at makes his spine ache, but by John’s best guess they’re not going to have to keep it up for much longer anyway.

Sherlock arches, finding traction between the press of his shoulders against the wall and his hips against John, but not enough. One hand finds the towel rail and grasps it, the other scrabbles at the leg of the sink and the plumbing leading into the wall. “Not the pipe-“ John says, noticing, hastily grabbing Sherlock’s hand and lacing their fingers. He could foresee the old metal busting and giving them a rude end to their fun. “You’ll pull it out.”

“Fuck the pipes,” Sherlock says ardently, closing his eyes and then groaning, “Fuck _me_.”

“Jesus,” John swears, getting carried away and then pushes hard enough to make Sherlock yawp when the back of his head cracks the tiles. John laughs and winces with sympathy, sliding a hand between bruise and wall. “Sorry! I’m sorry.” He kisses him to show he means it.

Sherlock grimaces. “Move.” He suggests, and both of them reflect this would be easier if they’d bothered to get into bed. John withdraws, pragmatism overruling passion, and they reconvene on the floor, tumbling together to spoon in the mess of damp towels and matting. Sherlock cocks a leg to guide John back where he wants him and the whole act slows to softer intimacy again.

John draws him close, his hands wandering over Sherlock’s belly and he breathes over the nape of his neck as he speaks.

“I missed you.”

In reply, Sherlock wordlessly grasps one of his hands and kisses his fingers one at a time, starting with the longest. He mouths John’s name against the paler inside of the man’s wrist and then makes a deeply gratifying noise when John finally finds the right angle. Not bothering to tease, John presses his lips to the tender spot below Sherlock’s ear that he knows makes him go weak at the knees.

They take their time, in the end, falling into a not unfamiliar pattern of sleepy love-making; stringing things out as much as they can stand it. John brings him to the brink of orgasm and then eases off, not giving it to him all at once but teasing him over the edge.

Sherlock twists on himself, reaching back to kiss John; tightens on him and in doing so makes him come first. Panting, John runs his thumb fully over the head of Sherlock’s cock and finishes what he’d started over a week ago.

They come apart slowly, Sherlock regaining his wits more quickly than John for once. He rolls onto his other side and carefully eases the condoms away, dropping them into the bin.

“Better,” John murmurs. His hair is half dry and in a right royal mess; almost as bad as Sherlock’s.

“I think so,” Sherlock agrees, smoothing the muscle down the back of John’s neck. He noses lovingly at his hairline, and then adds quietly. “I didn’t mean to put you through the wringer quite so much.” He doesn’t think John is angry with him, anyway, but the other has gone quiet and he gets no reply. Sherlock eases back a touch in order to see John’s face.

The Scottish sunshine, not famous for sun tanning, has nonetheless left a faint stain of pink and minute freckles across John’s skin. His expression is relaxed and open, his lips slightly parted, and there’s a damn good measure of trust in it even though John can hardly be aware of it.

Sherlock gives a huff and reaches under John’s arm to pat his naked thigh firmly.

“Whas?” John says with a start. He bumps his nose against Sherlock’s chin.

“You dozed off,” Sherlock informs him.

“Sorry, I’m really uuuaahhhhh.” John can’t even get the words out through a mammoth yawn. “Mmm, that.” Sherlock chuckles, his shoulders shaking against John’s chest. The cooling, drying skin of their legs prickles, making the hair stand on end. Sherlock tugs at his hand.

“Bed,” he tells John.

“Pull me up,” John pleads, even though Sherlock is wobbly-legged himself as he stands, the muscles of his long legs twanging and pinging from hard work, never mind the more intimate parts of his anatomy. Sherlock extends both hands down crossed and hauls John upright enough to deposit him sitting on the lip of the bath.

John winces and rubs at his lower back, which is already griping. “I’m going to feel this in the morning,” he says. There’s a flannel still sopping wet in the bottom of the bath and he fishes it out, setting the showergel straight too.  

“Or I could give you something else to feel,” Sherlock offers, canting his weight from one heel to the other; a waggle at eye level. John raises an eyebrow.  Sherlock already looks shagged out, and John’s fairly sure that Sherlock’s been sleeping as little in his absence as he has. “Would you put money on that?”

“No, John. It’s a penis. They aren’t renowned for either their balancing acts nor their financial aptitude.”

He loves the way John laughs; crinkle-eyed and wheezing like an asthmatic, completely lacking in dignity. It’s like the laugh is escaping before his voice or lips can catch it. The tip of his tongue pokes out.  Sherlock nudges his jaw with his knuckles, smiling. “Idiot,” he says, kindly.

“I wasn’t the one suggesting cock hoopla,” John points out. He yawns again. “Right, it’s no good. I’m beat.”

He clambers to his feet and eschews both pants and pyjamas, though he does give himself a final once-over with a flannel. They jostle each other’s elbows over the toothpaste, Sherlock hogging the sink as they take turns to brush their teeth.

John lumbers into Sherlock when he’s done drying off, kisses him messily through the Colgate, and trundles away into the bedroom, scratching his rear without any conscious acknowledgement of doing so.

Sherlock looks at him go, obliviously dribbling foam, and wouldn’t change a thing. He picks up the second flannel, has a scrub dry with the hand towel and leaves both articles in the sink. Once upon a time, he would simply have done so from lack of caring to do better, now it’s simply the sense of permanence. The sink, the house, and the great, grand everything else will still be there come morning.

“Are you coming in or not?” John’s voice wavers over another yawn from the bedroom.

“Round two so soon?”

“Hah!” John says, digging his shoulder into the pillow and determinedly bundling the duvet on his side. God it feels good to be back in his own bed; their bed. With the nice squashy bits in the mattress right where they’re wanted to be and a pillow that doesn’t smell like it’s been boiled within an inch of it’s life. “Get the light.”

Sherlock paws the switch, and with a sigh, folds himself into bed beside John, grappling with him for a share of the covers that neither of them really need and will be kicked off the bed sooner rather than later.

“Give,” Sherlock demands.

John chuckles, rolls onto his back and relents. He stretches out his back and closes his eyes. “Hmm, that’s better,” he murmurs.

“Mm,” Sherlock agrees, sticking his feet against John’s calf in the space where John hasn’t been for too long. John fumbles under the duvet for Sherlock’s hand and drags it over, planting it on his stomach. Sherlock’s teeth faintly reflect the light from the alarm clock when he grins.

“Welcome home.”

John wrinkles his nose, though he’s grinning too. “You’re supposed to say that when I get in the door.”

“You were in a temper.”

“Mmm,” John agrees, mellowed out. Sherlock watches him relax, loves the discrete flickers of his eyelids as John pictures something in his head; some pleasant, errant thought.

“I rather like your tempers,” Sherlock tells him.

“Git,” John says, lovingly.


End file.
